


Meaning of it All

by agent_orange



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/M, Genderswap, Oral Sex, Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-05
Updated: 2014-06-05
Packaged: 2018-02-03 13:52:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1746995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_orange/pseuds/agent_orange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Beach won't be too crowded. We could surf."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Meaning of it All

Nate finishes her Democratic Theory exam at 2:37, thirteen minutes before the allotted time ends. She's second to turn it in, and then she leaves, the thump of her boots and the clinking metal fixtures on her jacket echoing in the otherwise quiet room.

Her bags are packed, and her ticket, boarding pass, and ID are ready to go on the desk, along with a bag of snacks for the plane (the granola will be finished before she enters Californian airspace, as will the coconut water, and she'll throw out her trash on the plane so Brad doesn't mock her.) and a couple magazines for the trip.

She's had two weeks of nothing but her nose to the books. This is her well-deserved summer break, and Brad has a little vacation time from the UK.

*

The cabin's air pressure makes Nate's fingers swell so much that she has to take off her rings, and she worries they'll fall out of her loose pants pockets, so she holds them in her palm, metal denting her skin. Though none of them have diamonds, the older woman next to Nate thinks it's an engagement ring, asks about Nate's fiancé.

When Nate blushes and corrects her, she just smiles. "Well, maybe soon," the woman says.

*

Brad greets her at the airport. Minus the darker tan, he looks exactly the same as he did when he came out to Cambridge in March. He's smiling just a little, though Nate knows he's happier than he looks to see her.

He hugs her, and then, a little awkwardly, ducks his head down for a quick kiss. Not enough to annoy his disgust of PDA if it were anyone else, just a welcome.

"Let's get your bags," he says, letting Nate slip her hand around his wrist.

*

The house has been painted since last year, Nate notices. Despite what Brad says, her recon skills haven't gone to shit just because she spends her time associating with 'latte-drinking, peace-loving, flag-burning moonbats.'

It's not that ugly-ass shade of beige anymore; Brad seems to have painted it a cream color, almost yellow, and the idea of Brad living in a yellow house makes Nate laugh at loud.

"My bike doesn't impress you?" he asks. Under the bright midday sun, it gleams black, almost blinding. Brad clearly takes excellent care of it. There's not a scratch or speck of dirt to be found.

"No," Nate says. "It does." She wonders if Brad would be willing to take her out on it this time.

"I'm glad she meets your approval, then." Brad gives a half-smile, and heads into the house.

 _She_. Of course Nate's competing for affection with Brad's bike.

*

Too late for lunch but too early for dinner, and Brad makes sandwiches anyway, bacon, lettuce and tomato. There are chips on the side, and he rolls his eyes (but obliges) when Nate asks if he has any fruit.

"How is it over there?" she asks. "I hear the roads are terrible and the beer's even worse.

"You heard right," Brad says. "It's different. Kind of a nice change. The water's even colder over there, though."

"At least you get a few days of California sun," Nate reminds him. "I'll even go surfing with you, if you want. But I can't promise I'll be good."

*

Nate naps on the couch, tired from the flight and her finals. She drifts in and out of sleep, aware of Brad when he checks in on her every so often, the faint sounds of vegetables being chopped filtering in from the kitchen.

*

"Is that produce?" Nate murmurs sleepily. "Funny, I thought your diet consisted solely of meat, carbs, dairy, and that over-processed junk you call food."

Brad kisses her, pulling back a few seconds before Nate's ready for him to. "You really _have_ been spending too much time with those limp-dicked liberals," he says. "You could have gone to Vanderbilt or Duke instead, but no, you just _had_ to pick a state so blue it'd make Michael Moore jealous."

"Actually, Brad, the Harvard Republicans meetings are pretty well-attended, considering," Nate says, getting up to help with dinner.

"I'm surprised you found the time to go to one." Brad raises an eyebrow. "Let me guess: you left after fifteen minutes."  

Nate shakes her head. "Ten, if that. Sheltered rich brats couldn't understand that we were fighting more than one war over there." She makes a face, and Brad laughs. "But hey, at least they were undergrads."

"Maybe one of them'll follow in your footsteps." Brad reaches across Nate to stir the white sauce, resting his hand on her hip as the flame builds.

*

That night, Brad takes his time, though it's been so long and all Nate really wants is to feel him. Half-drunk and giddy, they stumble into the bedroom, collapsing in a tangle of limbs on Brad's neatly-made bed. Brad's hands are in Nate's hair, and his hips slot against hers almost perfectly, even with the height difference.

Marks that Nate's never seen before are scattered across Brad's body—a patch of skin that's marred from a burn; a jagged, white-pink scar on his back. She runs her hands over them for now, knowing she'll eventually learn them by touch.

Brad fumbles with Nate's bra (the clasp is in the front) and she wonders why she even wears it; unless she's going to class, she could probably skip it and still look fine.

"I got it," she says, but lets Brad tug it away once it's open. His mouth is so hot against hers, electricity making Nate's entire body tingle. The dull throbbing between her legs does nothing for the calm, contained air she's trying to keep, but fuck it. It's too hard to play coy when Brad bites her neck, running his fingers across her pulse point before he squeezes her breast.

"Are you wet for me?" he asks, voice low and rough, and Nate shivers; she can't help it. Brad nips at the spot just above her navel, pulling Nate's underwear down so his mouth can follow his fingers. "Mmm," says Brad, two fingers moving over her clit before he finally puts his mouth where Nate really wants it.

His tongue slides home and Nate immediately arches up, amazed at how comparably the memories were next to the real thing.

Brad doesn't have much hair for Nate to grab, but that doesn't stop her from trying to do so, trying to anchor herself so she doesn't drift away. He laughs against her, doubles his efforts, and she nearly loses it.

"Brad," she chokes, and he backs off a little, giving her a minute even though that's not what she wanted. He watches her, the look in his eyes that'd be predatory elsewhere makes Nate's throat tighten. "What are you waiting for?" she asks.

The combination of Brad's mouth and his fingers is too much for Nate, and the waves of pleasure that'd been rolling through her body break, taking her down with the crash.

" _God_ ," she cries out, "oh, _oh_ , Brad," unable to hold back both her words and the choked-off little sounds she's making. Her back's completely bowed, toes curled and fingers clutching the sheets.

Brad's relentless. He doesn't ease up when Nate stops shaking; for a few moments, she's tender, but then it's amazing. He makes her come like that again, so good that actual fucking doesn't really seem necessary. But she nods when Brad asks if she can go again, helping him roll the condom on and rising up to meet him when he slides into her.

Blissed-out and lazy, Nate wraps her legs around Brad's waist so she can participate without taxing her already-tired body too much. Brad mouthes at Nate's jaw, the curve of her shoulder, like he's trying to taste the freckles scattered there. That's the spot he bites when he comes, teeth and suction leaving a mark Nate knows will bloom into a bruise by morning. It hurts more than she remembered, but it's a welcome pain, a reminder that Brad's _here_ , at least for now.

It doesn't take long before he gets too heavy, weight compressing her lungs like she's back at the pool in BRC. He doesn't roll off right away, and she pushes at Brad while trying to slip out from underneath him.

"Sorry," he says, looking vaguely self-conscious, like maybe this was a problem with Julie, so Nate doesn't say anything. She just presses against his side, watching as he breathes into the pillow he'd buried his face in.

Beneath Nate's fingers is a wash of red, yellow, and black. She moves her fingers up to touch his shoulders, still amazed that Brad has a bulldog there, given how much he absolutely hates moto displays of mindless patriotism.

"You know, it sort of looks like a cat," she says. "A cat with a mustache." It's not completely accidental that her voice slips into a commanding Southern twang.

"I can't believe you're doing this right now." Brad sounds almost pained. "I'll save you the trouble of asking: drunk off my ass in Perth. Yes, Ray was there. Yes, I blame him."

"Good to know," Nate says, running the edge of her nail over it. "Is the other one a Star of David?"  

He turns to look at her now, letting his hand rest on the curve of her hip. "Supposed to be. But that's what happens when you let an apprentice work on you." Brad pauses for a minute, and then adds, "Why? Are you thinking of getting something done?"

"Sort of," she admits. "I'm not great with needles."

"Well, if you do decide to have them repeatedly shoved into your skin, I'd be happy to take you."

"Thanks," she says into the curve of his shoulder, letting sleep take her.

*

They run in the morning, Brad pushing Nate to keep up, and Nate trying her fucking hardest to do so. She maintains that Brad's height gives him an unfair advantage.

After that it's a quick shower (together, and Brad curls his fingers inside of Nate until pressing her cheek to the tile is all she can do to stay upright.) and then breakfast.

He fries up bacon and eggs for breakfast—a pleasant surprise—and Nate balances the fat with whole wheat toast and grapefruit, which Brad declines.

"Rudy gives me enough shit about my diet," Brad says. "It's all 'try organic this' and 'have some range-free, fucking tasteless that.'"  

"You know, an organic diet can be pretty satisfying." Well, sort of. Nate breaks it when she feels like pigging out, but food with fewer chemicals and less processing really does make her feel better. Brad looks like he's getting ready to go all Rambo, so Nate stops.

"What's the plan for today?"

Brad looks out the window. "It's still early," he said. "Beach won't be too crowded. We could surf."

There's a one-piece in Nate's bag. She's borrowing a rashguard and board shorts from a friend specifically because she thought Brad would drag her into the ocean and shove a surfboard into her hands whether she liked it or not. Unsurprisingly, she's right, though Nate's never really wanted to learn how to surf. But it's time with Brad, and she's willing to bet his ass looks great in his gear.

*

Things don't exactly go as planned. Or more accurately, Nate almost breaks her nose trying to learn how to surf. The waves are strong and the board hits her in the face multiple times; it's not that she's uncoordinated. She doesn't remember the waves being this relentless. Brad keeps giving her instructions, but it's hard enough for Nate to stay upright on the board.

After about an hour of Nate getting bruised and thrown around by the waves, Brad suggests they take a break, and she's inhaled enough salt water that it seems like a good idea.

They get ice cream from a vendor up by the dunes—a King Cone for Brad and a Chipwich for her. It makes her feel like a kid at day camp again, buying an afternoon snack from the canteen while Billy Matthews tried to steal the quarters clenched tight in her sweaty palm. She stifles a laugh so Brad doesn't ask if she thinks the sun and beach chairs are hilarious now, but the memory's there.

Nate's fingers are sticky when she finishes the last bite of cookie, and she's acutely aware of Brad watching her lick them clean.

"We're in public," she hisses, but the half-smile on her face negates the disapproving tone.

*

Brad's off doing serious surfing shit that Nate's not even going to pretend to understand, so she pulls a book from her tote and gets set up with a towel. It's a beach read—thin plot and crappy writing, but it's mindless, which is really what she was looking for.

The sun's bright even through Nate's sunglasses; she squints to make out the words on the page. She wishes she had a hat, preferably one with a wide brim to shade her face, but she's not about to have Brad crack WASPy trophy wife jokes at her.

Cold water runs down the back of her neck, and she curses. " _Asshole_ ," she says. "Was that really necessary?"

"Come on," Brad says. "You're trying again. You'll get it this time."

By the end of the day, she does get it, even if she's extra-cautious as the waves carry her closer to shore. If she didn't know how to read Brad's face, he wouldn't look proud, but she can see it in his eyes.

*

Nate buys tacos for an early dinner, loaded with meat and cheese. Brad looks like he's in heaven. There's a faint stripe of pink across his nose and cheeks where he forgot to put on sunscreen, though Nate knows it won't peel and freckle like her own skin does.

On the walk back to his place, Brad's cell buzzes with an incoming text; the smile drops off his face when he reads the message.

"Motherfucker," he says. "I forgot tonight's poker night. My turn to host."

"I can make myself scarce, if you want," Nate offers, but Brad shakes his head.

"You're invited. I just don't see why you'd want to waste your time with lazy-ass grunts."

"Hey," Nate says, her serious face on. "Those lazy-ass grunts helped make up the best damn Recon platoon ever. So don't cross me, bitch." But she bursts out laughing before Brad can make her do it, unable to maintain the mask.

*

Apparently they go all out for poker night. Brad comes back from the grocery store with frozen soft pretzels, chips, dip, jelly beans, soda, and olives.

"Just to be clear," Nate says. "This isn't 'Brad has all of Bravo Two over to shoot the shit', right?"   "Nope." Brad straightens a napkin. They're going to be playing fucking poker and he's setting the table like his whole family's coming for Passover seder. It's ridiculous. Even Nate can admit that. When that's finished, he's making sure the bowls of candy have exactly the same amount, and okay, Ray was definitely right about the carpet rake and Brad's obsessive-compulsive disorder.

Suddenly, Brad looks up. "They're here," he says. The doorbell hasn't rung yet, and Nate doesn't hear footsteps. He's right, though. Soon enough, someone's pounding on the door.

It's really great to see the guys again. Poke's doing well—his wife's pregnant again. Lovell just finished another tour. Pappy's at BRC for a bit, and his foot's healing well. Rudy's even more built than Nate remembers, and Ray's...Ray, but it's kind of soothing. He's the one constant, no matter what else happens.

Everybody gets pretty drunk by the end of the night, and Brad calls cabs. Nate sees him slip an extra bill to the guy driving Ray's cab and mutter an apology.

"We can clean up in the morning," he says as he tugs Nate into the bedroom, and then they kiss, lazy and slow, until they fall asleep.

*

Even though her advisor said Nate should take the first month or so of her summer to relax, she starts outlining her thesis while Brad's fiddling with his gigantic dorky watch, _Cool Hand Luke_ playing quietly on his flat screen.

She's got one tab open about current US relations with Iraq, and another about civilian casualties of war. A friend getting her masters in English recommended PageFour, which works so well it might be the only thing keeping Nate sane in a few months. It's slow-going, but steady. She wants to have the outline done in a month, and a more detailed outline soon after that.

"My mom called earlier," Brad says out of nowhere. Nate looks up from her laptop. "She said she wants to meet you. If you're ready, I mean. You don't have to."

It's a big step—he'd never admit it, but Nate knows Brad's mom is the most important person in his life, and if she doesn't like Nate, Brad might reconsider everything. But she wants to make a good impression on Judy, and avoiding her probably isn't the best way to do that.

"Sure," Nate agrees. "When?"

"Couple days. She wants to take us out for lobster dinner." He's silent for another few minutes, and then he adds, "You can stay here, if you want. For the summer. My subletter got stop-lossed and probably won't be back until fall, so..."

"Really?" she asks. It's kind of surprising that Brad's willing to get serious and talk about it. Clearly, something's changed, and she's not going to turn her back on a good thing. Offering his place to her for the summer shows commitment; now what she has to do is charm his mother and hope his next tour is less of a clusterfuck than their last one.

Easy.


End file.
